19 April 2012


The initial premise of this poem comes from Sigmund Krzhizhanovsky's book The Letter Killers Club. In it a group of men meet to tell stories to each other free from the 'death' of being written down. They have a room full of empty shelves to hold their unwritten tales.

Library 4/19

The shelves are empty save
the dust which is a part of myself

I scratch at the cut on my head
and think about the fluids I have lost
on these first hot days of the year

The city breathes
I feel like the mote caught in sunlight
only a speck to irritate the lungs
of the sleeping muse

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